


today i opened up my heart

by incendiarydissension



Series: demons [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (a lil bit on john's part just cause he's an ignorant douche), Established Relationship, M/M, Time Skips, Trans Character, Transphobia, it will get nsfw at some point i know what you guys like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2527829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendiarydissension/pseuds/incendiarydissension
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s talking, once you’ve sorted through the usual facetious insults and weird slang, like he’s got something important to tell you.</p><p>Something urgent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'll pick up these shards from the floor

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends this is your dumb gay friend john back with another trans dave fic  
> title taken from the lyrics of [demons by hirstbird](http://hirstbird.bandcamp.com/track/demons)

November 3rd, 8:14 AM 

  
FR: ❤huge doofus❤ <turntechgodhead@pestermail.com>   
TO: saccharine term of affection <ectobiologist@pestermail.com>   


hey man  
uhh  
so i know youve got like five shitty day jobs and youre all busy doing shit like homework which is a fantastic bummer and all but  
gotta get my gab on with you at some point this fine evening   
miss my egnerd no matter how many horrendously unironic 90s flicks he tries to make out with me to  
you wanna come to my place later itll be a fuckin party as per always  
yeah not urgent or anything but it kind of actually is so yo  
get your ass up here at some point during the day  


He sends the email at eight in the morning on a Saturday, which is the first hint that something’s wrong. Dave might not have the most reliable sleep schedule there is, but you know it’s strictly against his rules to wake up on a weekend before the sun’s reached its peak. If you didn’t have your shitty waitering job, you’d probably be in the same boat as he is. That’s why, as you sit in your car in the parking lot and stare at your phone, this whole thing is so worrisome. What’s he doing up so early? 

So it’s with apprehension that you click on the email, which, as usual, has a subject line that you can’t wrap your head around. Some long winded thing about rapping and the new rolls of film he needs. You know he likes to make them completely unrelated to the email itself just to piss people off, or maybe for his weird definition of irony. 

But it’s the content of the email that really makes you worried. He doesn’t start out with some stunningly far-fetched extrapolation on frogs and Barack Obama, or even go off on a long winded tangent about your movies, which you KNOW he loves bashing even though you’ve explicitly told him you don’t give two fucks about what he thinks of them. He’s talking, once you’ve sorted through the usual facetious insults and weird slang, like he’s got something important to tell you. 

Something urgent. 

Hey, maybe you’re not the quickest to pick up on things. Never have been, and probably never will be. Rose affectionately calls you “somewhat dense”. Dave calls you “a complete dunderhead”. It really depends on Jade’s mood what she calls you, but it usually ranges from "oh my god you dont get it!" to somewhere along the lines of "PLEASE JUST GIVE UP." But you’re more than capable of putting two and two together, especially when the clues can fit so well. 

The way he never changes in front of you. 

Or how he won’t let you take off his shirt. 

The way he squirms away when you try to hug him. 

There are these little rituals he does, sometimes, where he goes hard and aloof for days at a time and won’t let you kiss him. You ask him what’s wrong and he’ll shrug and stay quiet. Sometimes you can feel him stiffen when you crack a joke about how damn gay he is for you. It used to be the other way round, for god’s sake. 

A lot of times, he won’t even let you touch him. 

He doesn’t always do it, but when he does, it hurts. And it’s been happening more and more recently. You don’t know what you did. You don’t even know if it IS something you did. But does it have something to do with this email? You think so. 

You fritter most of the day away anxiously, going back and forth between taking people’s orders and rereading the email. When your shift is over you’ve pretty much worked yourself up into a nervous froth. The last people you serve food to actually fix you with a concerned stare, like they’re watching some poor dude on the street have a nervous breakdown. You guess they’re not that far off. You feel like you could throw up. 

At least they tip you well. That’s something. 

Half a year. You’ve been together half a year. Well, five months-- five of the best damn months in your life. It’s gotten to the point where you don’t remember what life was like without him. Babbling in your ear relentlessly about every single thing that pops into his head. Sending you those stupid TF2 frag videos he loves so ironically much in the middle of the goddamn night. The way he kisses you, all soft and sweet with those pale, pink lips curling up in just a hint of a perfectly uncool smile... 

You want to call him but you know he’s never going to pick up. Anyway, you’re not sure if you’d be able to hear his stupid voice without breaking down into tears. 

You don’t even remember the last time he said he loved you. 

By the time you’ve made your way to his house, you’re not even sure you want to see him anymore, but you knock anyway. If just for the way he said he misses you. A lie? A false comfort? God, you don’t know anymore. You’re too upset to even try to read him. But some part of you hopes it’s still the truth, that it’s not something you did or said that made him decide you weren’t worth keeping. 

It’s not Dave who answers the door, which isn’t all that out of the ordinary. Usually Bro has to catch whoever’s at the door, even if it’s for Dave, because Dave spends much of his time locked in his room with his headphones blaring rap music. That’s not what worries you. It’s the way Bro looks when he claps a hand on your shoulder, offers one of his half-shrugs that are like white rice in that they taste like nothing without context, and says, “Good luck, kid,” in a tone that sounds more dangerous than supportive. It’s obvious he knows what Dave’s summoned you for. It’s a little less obvious that he doesn’t like it, but you can still catch that in the glint of light that strikes his sunglasses as he turns to watch you head for Dave’s room. You’ve learned to read Bro pretty well over the ten or so years you and Dave have known each other, but it’s still nearly impossible to tell what he’s thinking, so when it’s clear he’s deliberating between staying back or following you up to Dave’s room, you have to inwardly cringe. Something’s wrong with this entire household. Well, besides the usual. 

You never knock before entering. You’ve caught him doing any number of hilarious things that way. But he’s not even at his computer this time. He’s lying on his back on his shitty twin sized bed, arms flopped out on either side of him, staring blank faced at the ceiling. There’s no shitty rap music blaring from his headphones. In fact, his headphones are nowhere in sight. But you still have to rap on the doorframe with your knuckles, clearing your throat loudly, until he stiffens a little and then leaps to his feet. 

You’ve startled him, so he has to take a moment to relax from strifing stance. When he does, he gives you a sarcastic mock salute and plops down on the bed. Embarrassed. Typical. 

“Sup,” you say warily, still lingering in the doorway. “Did I surprise you?” 

He waves his hand like it’s no big thing. “Naaah. Come on, aren’t you gonna sit? My bed’s all cozy, just for you.” He pats the mattress with the back of one hand. You hesitate a little more, sticking to the doorway just to make sure he’s not kidding, and when he cocks his head to the side, (like a crow, in that way he always does), it encourages you forward enough to turn and sit heavily on the bed. You think he takes note of how far away you sit. Usually you have no sense of personal space whatsoever-- his words, not yours. Now you’re consciously trying to separate, and he can tell. 

You were expecting him to start talking right away, as he normally does, but there’s a good period of nothing but him clearing his throat, going to scoot closer to you and then stopping with a tiny frown. You find yourself fidgeting as his eyes come to rest on you through those shades, scanning your face and shoulders, then your hands, which you move from the edge of the bed to your lap, and your legs, one of which has started bouncing uncontrollably without your permission. It’s very quiet in here. It really shouldn’t scare the shit out of you. But he’s watching you as though it’s his last chance to really take you in like this, and god, you would rather get it over with so you can go home and cry than drag it out like this, all muscles tensed, fighting for closure. 

“So...” Your voice is calmer than you thought it would be. “What did you want to talk to me about?” 

“Ah--” He stiffens visibly next to you, and you look up sharply. “Right,” he mumbles. He really doesn’t mumble very often, Dave, and when he does it’s usually when it’s something he doesn’t want to say. Dave doesn’t say things he doesn’t want to say, not without a good reason. 

He clears his throat. (You’ve always loved the way he does it. All high pitched and squeaky. God, you love him.) 

“I... felt like I needed to tell you something,” he continues, almost hesitantly. You have to raise an eyebrow at that. Dave Strider is never hesitant. “I... I think there’s something... I just couldn’t DO this anymore, not without you knowing--” 

He takes a deep breath. Is he _shaking_? You’re tempted to put a hand on his shoulder and try to comfort him, but you know he’d just shrug you off, so you stay still, gritting your teeth. 

“I-I need to tell you something,” he repeats quietly, without even a hint of his usual bravado. “About me. Before we can keep being together like this.” 

“What--” you breathe, arms going weak. Being together like this? So he’s not trying to break it off with you, after all. But then why does he look like he’s about to start crying? You want to put an arm around him now-- hell, you want to hug him and kiss him and let him know he doesn’t have to tell you ANYTHING, as long as he’s still your boyfriend. As long as you didn’t screw it up. 

But he’s obviously spent time working himself up to this. He’s thought it through, a lot more than he normally thinks things through. You put a careful hand on his knee, expecting him to flinch and taking the blow without complaint when he does. “What do you mean?” you say, quiet like you’re trying not to spook a frightened stray cat. 

“John,” he says softly, not even managing to mask the tremor in his voice. “You’re pan, right?” 

“W-what?” You nod, squeezing his leg supportively as you can. “Yeah, yeah I am! Why?” 

He swallows. “Okay... okay, I’m... takin’ the motherfucking plunge here... ” You don’t want him to tell you this if it’s breaking him up like this. He seems set on it, though. Petrified as he looks, with his face white and his hands twisting in his lap, he wants to tell you. Some part of you tells you it’s a bad idea to try and stop him. 

”I... when my nonexistant birth parents ordered a kid in the mail, some parts got lost in delivery. I got folded the hamburger way and not the hot dog way. I...” He glances up at you as though hoping his convoluted poetry has gotten through to you. When you shrug, he lets out a hiss of air through his teeth and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck, how many ways do I have to SAY this?” 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, dude,” you mumble. “Sorry.” 

He makes a strangled noise, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m... I’m... trans,” he whispers. 

Your mind switches to blank mode almost immediately. 

What. 

“What,” you say flatly, eyebrows drawing together. This is one of the last things you would have expected him to say, sandwiched somewhere between “I’m pregnant”, “You’re turning blue”, and “Hey, is that your dead Nanna outside the window?”. 

But no, no, he’s saying he’s... trans? You frantically shuffle through the list of terminology you remember from fifth grade sex ed, searching for the term, and when that doesn’t turn anything up you try to remember the plot of Orange Is The New Black before you stopped watching it. Something with Laverne Cox and perfect vaginas. 

“I’m trans... transgender,” he repeats, the space between his own eyebrows shrinking to a crease as well. “I wasn’t born with guy stuff. I got mixed up with someone else’s body when the stork carried me in its cushy ass crap-stained birthing blanket--” 

“No, no, I know what it--” You press your lips together briefly. “I think I know what...” Then you trail off, fixing your eyes on the carpet in front of you. 

“John?” He sounds damn near terrified. It breaks your heart. 

“So...” you say carefully. “You were born a girl?” 

“Nnno. Uh uh. That’s not how it works.” Dave shakes his head. His? He’s still a he, right? He looks like a he and he acts like a he and he IS a he, right? He’s your boyfriend. Your incredible boyfriend. Right? Your head is spinning. 

“You’re still my boyfriend.” It’s a question and you hope he reads it as such-- god, you hope he’s still yours-- 

“I’ve always been your boyfriend, always,” he says quickly, thank god he understands your confusion. “Well, not always, but-- I’ve always been Dave, a boy, I’m a--” 

“Does this mean you have boobs?” you interrupt, craning your neck to peer at his chest. 

He freezes up for a second, mouth hanging open. Then, when you don’t move to touch him, he relaxes visibly, the smirk thankfully returning to its rightful place. “Yeah, I have a sweet Strider rack. They’re kinda squished, though. And no, you can’t touch them. Shit’s restricted.” 

“I wasn’t going to ask if I could touch them.” Honestly, you’re still kind of not processing this. Dave doesn’t have a dick. Dave has girl parts. But Dave is a boy. Dave’s always been a boy. You almost feel angry at whoever’s in charge of putting people together-- God or whatever he’s supposed to be, though the both of you like to sit on the couch and laugh at the concept of a god. Didn’t they-- didn't science-- didn't _evolution_ know Dave wasn’t supposed to come out this way? 

“You don’t have...” You gesture to his crotch vaguely. You never noticed anything. For god’s sake, you don’t make a point of staring at your boyfriend’s dick. But it LOOKS like there’s something... 

“Not a real one,” he mutters. 

Oh no, he looks upset. You backtrack hopefully. “Even after all that boasting about your-- your super Strider salami?” Those are his words too. God forbid your brain ever produces anything that embarrassing. 

He snickers. “Nah, I lied to you, bro. Sorry.” 

“Huh...” 

You go silent for a few seconds, looking him up and down. You can kind of see it now, how feminine he really looks. His face is slender and soft. His cheeks have always been covered in that fine peach fuzz. His lips are round, soft, light pink and wonderful to kiss. His shoulders are narrow. His throat is smooth and flat, no hint of an Adam’s apple anywhere to be found. But... Dave Strider, a girl? You’d never even thought it before. You have no reason to now. He’s Dave, and he looks like a boy. And pulls it off damn well, if you’re honest. 

He runs his hand over the back of his neck as he does when he’s apprehensive. “So you’re chill. We’re chill. Everyone’s chill.” 

You nod slightly. He makes a happy little sound in the back of his throat. (God, it’s the same Dave as ever. Even if he did get shipped in wrong.) 

“Who else knows?” you ask softly. That seems important. 

“Bro. Rose. That’s it.” He scoots a little closer to you, sinking down to lie on his side, and you follow him, wanting the comfortable intimacy that you don’t usually get to share with him. Would he pull away from you because he thought you would find out? The thought makes you wince. “Have you been hiding it long?” 

“Always known, really, but...” He shrugs. “Maybe twelve, thirteen, I started gettin’ jumpy. Parts started growing in. Wasn’t going the way I wanted to go. Shit went sideways.” He runs a hand down his own side with a weird little shivery squirm. You can see him tracing shallow curves that are usually invisible under his shirt. “Had my hair cut short when I was six. Pixie cut. Lady made it girly so I went home and chopped it off with safety scissors, remember that? Started packing and binding at fourteen. Didn’t have much in the way of tits before then.” He pokes at his own chest. You wince at the thought of him squashing a pair of breasts under bandages or something. Is that even safe? 

“Bro says I can’t get hormones or surgery ‘till I can pay for it myself,” he goes on, scooting over so he’s lying directly next to you. “Which is pretty much the whole reason I haven’t been getting a boner when we start sucking face.” 

Your face feels pink. God, you never even clued in to that. You never even thought-- 

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, leaning in to pull him into a hug, and you can finally understand why he stiffens a little before relaxing into your embrace. 

“Hey, don’t be a dumbass,” he snorts. “Like you could have known your burly bara boyfriend was born with a vagina.” 

“Is this why you never let me blow you?” you sniff. 

“It’s hard to blow someone when they have nothing to put your mouth on.” He nudges you. “Dumbass.” 

“I always felt so bad when you didn’t ask for me to try….” you mumble. 

He reaches up to kiss you. “Jerking off to the thought of my boyfriend kissing me never got THAT old.” 

“Uh huh. TMI, bro.” You wrinkle your nose. “How does that even work? With…” 

He shrugs. “I make do. Sometimes can, mostly can’t. Doesn’t matter. I got you. ‘Member that time you wrecked your Ghostbusters boxers and yelled at me for an hour about it? And you were asking me why I didn't show a little empathy. For shame.” 

You roll your eyes. You want to kiss him so bad, but you’re too afraid he’ll pull away like he normally does. Instead, you bring a hand around to stroke his hair softly, bumping your foreheads together. “Dave... is this why you haven’t been letting me touch you?” 

“I TOLD you, man, there’s nothin’ down there to touch.” He looks uncomfortable. “It's a literal hole. A black hole of horrible luck.” 

“I don’t mean sex,” you protest. “Sometimes you... you don’t let me kiss you, or you don’t wanna cuddle on the couch and watch a movie, and when you emailed me this morning I thought it was about... something I’d done.” 

“You’re just the sweetest thing,” he drawls. “No, idiot, it’s not you. It’s not anything you do. How god damn conceited can someone get?” 

It’s harsh, but that’s Dave. Always going a little too far. Slowly, you reach for him, moving your hand from between the two of you to hover over his hip. He makes a soft noise and rolls over a little more so your noses bump together. “It’s never you,” he promises, softening unexpectedly. You can see him blink behind his shades. He lets you take them off him sometimes, in the cutest and most Strider-esque display of trust. You always wondered how he could have such long eyelashes. “I didn’t want you to find out that way. I should have told you a long time ago, John.” 

“Mm.” Yeah, but maybe he SHOULDN’T have. Has he ever thought of that? Jeopardizing his comfort is something you would never ask him to do. 

But he did anyway. You smile fuzzily up at him. “So, Dave, my sexy boyfriend. You’re trans. That’s what you wanted to tell me?” 

He grins. “Naw, I also wanted to break up with you. Pack your stuff.” 

“Fuck off!” You push his shoulder. 

He snorts and kisses you. 

Yep, still the same Dave.


	2. you have my paper skin beneath your hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parts where they shouldn’t be, empty space where they should, and you crave him, you want him to kiss away your distraction and slide his hand up to your cheek and down to your thigh and make you forget you were ever born like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> excuse me why does it have SAM'S url first and MINE second i will have you know I AM THE BOSS OF THIS WHOLE OPERATION. sam is a nerd who proofreads. jeez.

November 4, 10:42 PM

John stays up all night researching. 

You know this not because he’s in your room, or as a matter of fact in the same neighborhood, but because when you wake up, sleepily push your sunglasses onto your nose, throw on an oversized t-shirt, and flip open your computer lid, you’re greeted by a veritable barrage of blue text, which starts out fairly normal by the kid’s standards and ends up nearly incomprehensible. He must have been up all night, which you know with the two or three jobs he works piled on top is quite a feat. Why? 

Why does he do this for you? 

EB: dysphoria, what’s that?  
EB: like an out of body experience?  
EB: hehehe sounds spooky. 

EB: oh never mind this doesn’t sound very spooky.  
EB: or very funny.  
EB: D:  
EB: sorry dude.  
EB: so wait are you like constantly having this dysphoria thing?  
EB: or is it like an on again, off again kind of deal?  
EB: sorry john, someone flipped a switch down in the breaker room and i am dysphoric now, you can’t kiss me anymore!  
EB: man, that sucks.  
EB: i felt bad because i thought you didn’t want to kiss me, but really it was just because you wanted to be a buff burly dude instead of a small cute dave.  
EB: i thought earlier you shouldn’t tell me but if it was really this bad you should have told me sooner!  
EB: i could have helped you.  
EB: then i wouldn’t have bugged you so much about avoiding me.

EB: hehehehe apparently when you’re having sex you’re not even supposed to TOUCH his vagina.  
EB: wait, what are you supposed to do then? wait and pray??  
EB: i mean with a penis it is very straightforward, you just touch it kind of like it is an excited puppy.  
EB: pat, pat, good boy.  
EB: except it doesn’t bark, or try to take your food.  
EB: but it’s easy when you have one!  
EB: what do you do with a dave?  
EB: our sex ed sucked. 

EB: ew oh my god you can get your vagina removed??????  
EB: it looks so gross dude.  
EB: would it really look like this?  
EB: are you going to do that?  
EB: i might have enough money to help, maybe.  
EB: if you want to do that, i mean.  
EB: we could make a whole bank account for it and stuff.  
EB: i wonder if there is financial aid for transitioning boys.  
EB: it sounds so creepy.  
EB: but if that makes you happy then whatever dude. 

EB: so you wear a binder?  
EB: what size??  
EB: you’ve been hiding your shapely body from me this whole time why didn’t you TELL me?  
EB: dave i bet you have really manly curves.

EB: mmmm dave...  
EB: i want to kiss you.  
EB: did you know that when you are really into kissing you start making these little noises?  
EB: they’re so cute i miss them.  
EB: you are waaaay too aloof for me, dave, i don’t like it one BIT!  
EB: you might be soooo coooool but you can’t fool me.  
EB: i know you love me.  
EB: i know you love kissing me.  
EB: it is written in your genetic code.  
EB: uhhh.  
EB: the part that isn’t messed up.  
EB: you and your shitty coolkid facade can’t fool me!

EB: “they may be startled when they see themselves in the mirror.”  
EB: when will my reflection shooooow...  
EB: who i aaaaam...  
EB: insiiiide...  
EB: holy shit you can’t shower???  
EB: oh no never mind. 

EB: this is soooooo coooool dave there;s blogs and EVERYTHING.  
EB: i am not alone, haha.  
EB: neither are you.  
EB: htis is so great.  
EB: we’re like a whole community and everything.  
EB: well i guess i am not really part of that community, but i can be like a soccer mom and give you orange juice when you do things good.  
EB: when you dp things well.  
EB: jeez sorry. i’m tired. 

EB: i foudn a band.  
EB: they are called against me!  
EB: that exclamation point wasn’t me, they actually are called that.  
EB: exclamation point included.  
EB: why against me??  
EB: that’s a sad name.  
EB: :c  
EB: i am not against you dave.  
EB: <3

EB: hahaha do you remember when i first started getting into guys and i totally thought your brother was hot?  
EB: oh man that was a riot.  
EB: he had a little bit of scruff and i remember i wanted to touch it.  
EB: i still think he’s kin dof sexy dave.  
EB: but not as sexy as yoooou.  
EB: can you grow facial hair??  
EB: maybe after you do surgery or whatever.  
EB: and get HELLS OF TESTOSTERONE.  
EB: then you will expand into a buff man.  
EB: you are probably already really ripped, holy shit.  
EB: since you guys try to implae each other with swords on a daily basis.  
EB: didn’t you take jiu jitsu too?  
EB: i want to touch your abs.  
EB: i want to do my laundry on your washboard abs..  
EB: hehehehehe.

EB: i;m so glad tomorrow is sunday and i don’t have to do anything.  
EB: can i comeover tomorrow and sleep on you while you play videg oames?  
EB: it’s so ealry.  
EB: this is cool though it’s fancy.  
EB: now i don’t have to bother you with all these questions i have.  
EB: so amny questions, it is insane how many questions there are!  
EB: you would be so shocked at all these question.s  
EB: i will robably bug you about them so much tomorrow and you’ll regret ever becoming my boyfriend......  
EB: ghbjhhhhhhhhhhhhhhjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj  
EB: nooo, i fell asleep.  
EB: i was rocking out too hard to shitty rap music dave!  
EB: save me!  
EB: i have fallen prey to the demons of boring white rappers.  
EB: jjjmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,..,,...........

\- turntechGodhead [TG] joined chat. -  
TG: fuck you i do not make little noises when i kiss you  
TG: thats all your overactive imagination idk what youre on but never try it again  
TG: also go to sleep you asshole im coming over  
TG: yes that was supposed to sound like a threat 

You stare at your computer for a few seconds longer, just the hint of a half smile taking advantage of your sleepiness before you can catch it. What a blatantly naive, utterly dense sweetheart.

You’ve always loved how eager he is to please you, despite the outer layer of assholishness that clings to him like film over boiling milk. You love how stupid he is at the worst of times and how perceptive he gets at the best. The guy just wants to make you happy, and you’ve been denying him that one simple thing. You’ve been drawing away more and more recently-- you know it-- and it makes you feel undeniably _uncool_. You could at least indulge him in kisses.

And now the danger has been significantly reduced, because he knows what he’ll see if he takes off your shirt. He knows what he’ll trace when he runs his hands down your sides. You can trust him. Of course you can. It aches to know you didn’t just man up and tell him sooner. 

You can’t deny the way you crave his touches, sometimes. The way you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and try, desperately, to try and worm your fingers down between your legs in a way that doesn’t make you feel defective. Parts where they shouldn’t be, empty space where they should, and you crave him, you want him to kiss away your distraction and slide his hand up to your cheek and down to your thigh and make you forget you were ever born like this. Sometimes you just can’t stop thinking of your name on his lips as he arches towards you, the soft warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way his lips graze your earlobe and your jawline like he knows exactly what he’s doing and is perfectly confident in his skill, like he’s done this millions of times with millions of people-- even though you trust him wholeheartedly when he says you’re only the second and the first didn’t count. 

You end up taking the bus to his house, simply because you’re still half asleep (it takes you hours to fully wake up on the weekends) and driving would be a catastrophe. You choose a seat and lounge across it, trying to seem for all the world like you own this bus. There’s some couple sitting across from you and they exchange looks, but upon seeing you not give a shit they decide to pretend and ignore you. 

John might be a dense fuck, but other people are more perceptive. You can pull off androgyny. On good days, if you’re not feeling squeamish around anything feminine, makeup and contouring helps a little. But to get you through the day without people reverting to whispers and wonders, you usually rely on confidence and attitude, and you’re pretty much drained of both right now. 

Being cool and fearless is so hard when you’re tired. 

11:20 AM 

John’s home looks the same as every other in his crossword puzzle neighborhood, but you’d always thought before and still do now that it’s different from the others, that it holds a familiar glow that the other neatly kept, white-painted houses simply can’t achieve. It’s Mr. Egbert who answers, giving you a nod and a fatherly clap on the shoulder that Bro never offers. He used to be colder toward you, afraid you were leading his son down some path of sin that’s only visible when you snap on those special goggles of religion that seem to reveal unseen paths of evil, but he’s warmed to you now that he’s seen the two of you together. Once he saw the look on John’s face when you stood on your toes to kiss his cheek. You can’t keep from feeling a little proud every time you think of how you’ve changed him. 

“John hasn’t yet come downstairs,” he warns you. “I suspect he may still be asleep." 

“Conked out at his computer,” you suggest with a half-shrug. “He was up messaging me last night until pretty early. Dunno why.” This lie tastes different from the others you’ve told him. You’re lying with John now, instead of against him. The thought makes you fight back a grin. 

You’re waved upstairs after a while, if only because making conversation with your son’s boyfriend must be awkward at best, and knock on the door to be greeted with a soft snore. So, like usual, you just sidle in like you own the place. 

Sunlight spills through the split between the curtains, coloring a bumpy path across his fuzzy carpet until it finds the very tip of his index finger. From there it travels diagonally up his arm, which is hanging off the desk, to his unruly mop of thick hair, which somehow looks even more like a disaster than usual, and travels on towards his desk in the corner. But you’re not paying attention to the light anymore, because it’s boring and ugly compared to your boyfriend, sprawled out across his keyboard and snoring as he is. If you squint, you can tell his face is still pressed down on the keyboard from the long line of H’s that are still marching along in Pesterchum. He keeps the tiny window to the left of his screen-- something you always found irritating because you keep yours to the right, like it SHOULD be. Next to it fits his browser window, open to some wordy article on bottom surgery which is embellished with diagrams and complete with the usual confused comments from ignorant idiots at the bottom. 

“John,” you stage-whisper in his direction. When he does nothing but smack his lips, shifting a little on the keyboard (the H’s he’s typing turn to K’s), you heave a long, put-upon sigh and go to pick him up, shifting him around until his arms are around your shoulders. Then, staggering dramatically, you lift him out of the chair. He’s got five inches and forty pounds on you, as much as you hate to admit it, but you manage to get his sleepy ass over to the bed and plop him down in it, going without much thought to take off his shoes, jeans, and cover him with the blanket. You slide off his glasses, too. They’ve added two elliptical marks to the bridge of his nose that match wonderfully with the red squares from the keyboard. 

He stirs then, with a noise like a child just learning to talk, and blinks hazily up at you, struggling to focus without the help of his glasses. “Guh... Dave?” 

“‘Sup. Go back to sleep, doofus.” You slip off your own shoes and crawl in behind him, worming one hand under his side and letting the other rest on his hip. He makes a tiny sound of agreement, yawning, and you tuck your face into the back of his neck, letting another smile flit across your face before following him into sleep. 

One of you must have woken first, but the shifting and sniffling and blinking all happens pretty simultaneously. Your arms are wrapped loosely around his waist, and, as usual, your left arm is numb from the fingers to the elbow. In a sleep-muddled, automatic gesture that you know you’ll regret later, you hug him closer to you, kissing softly at the back of his neck. 

At first, you think he’s falling back asleep, but then he speaks. “You’re affectionate today.” 

“Mmm, you’re jumping to conclusions as always, Egbert,” you mumble, adjusting your glasses on the end of your nose. 

You can feel him humming, amused, through the vibrations in his skin. “ _Drawing_ conclusions. From reasonable evidence. Like a scientist...” He sighs softly when you run your hand through his hair. “Daaave.” 

“Yeah.” You draw away, stretching leisurely. You’ve taught yourself how to do it without letting your shirt lift enough to show the squishy little strip of skin on your stomach, but with a bolt of surprise you realize you don’t have to do that anymore. Leaning into the stretch, you raise your arms indulgently above your head, cold air creeping across your belly. John winces as your shoulders crack. “Strider!” 

“Hmm?” You give him a self-satisfied grin, amused at the grossed-out look on his face. He doesn’t get weirded out by many things, but you know what to do to make him squirm. 

He rolls his eyes. “Gimme my glasses, dude. Where--” 

They’re sitting on his dresser, as per fucking always. You toss them at him, snorting when he doesn’t quite catch them before they hit his chest. He swears under his breath as he fumbles to shove them on his face. Poor guy must be so tired. 

He finally manages to fit his glasses on right and blinks around owlishly at the room, hair falling in front of his eyes. You watch him silently, holding back a grin. A tiny bubble of affection blooms in your chest, just under the surface of your skin, and can’t be persuaded to pop. He doesn’t notice you looking. Instead, he tosses the blanket off. “Five in the morning was when I fell asleep, aaaargh. I have to get up early tomorrow.” 

“Didn’t ask you to spend your time perusing shitty, easily accessible blogging websites on my behalf,” you shrug, trying not to let the horrible warmth in your chest spread. “Could’ve asked me.” 

He scoffs. “Only to be redirected to the internet when you got tired of answering my questions!” 

He’s right, like usual. You stare at his exhaustion-smudged eyes and spikes of mussed, unbrushed hair and feel like you might just burst. 

“...Dave?” he mumbles, looking bewildered by your lack of response. 

When you lean forward to kiss him, lit embers of want and wonder lick their way through your stomach. He meets you halfway, but his confusion is tangible. Not as though it isn’t rightful confusion. He must feel how badly you want to press into him, run your hands over him, taste him. And he knows you best as someone who’s not affectionate in the least. You’ve hidden it well, haven’t you? There’s a lock on your door for when daydreams of kissing him get a little too much. Honestly, you don’t remember the last time you initiated a kiss. You certainly don’t remember him ever being the one to pull away, resisting the urge to run his hands over the curves he hides under boy’s t-shirts and praying fervently you don’t connect the dots he tries seo hard to hide. 

“Mm, Dave--” he says when you pull away, with a little wet _smeck_ that kind of grosses you out because you’re not all that used to kissing sounds anymore. You’re satisfied to see a little blush coloring his cheeks as he stares at you. “What was that for?” 

“Dude, you’re my boyfriend. I’m allowed to kiss you. Accept it and move on. I know you love some sweet Strider action.” 

He goes quiet for a few seconds, eyes moving from your face to your tattered old record t-shirt, which is starting to fall apart, but still fits you. (Those are the benefits of staying fucking tiny, you guess.) 

Then his face splits into a grin, and he leans forwards to kiss you again, putting his hands on your knees. Half of you still wants to pull away too quickly, but the other half pulls you in further to wrap your arms around his neck, tilting your head for him. He deserves it, the hopeless romantic that he is. 

“Daaave,” he says again when you break away, a lopsided grin on his face. “Does this mean you’ll kiss me more now?” 

“Maybe.” You shrug, sitting back on your heels. “Maybe not. No promises. We’ll just have to see.” 

He grins wider and you love him so much it aches. “I know you can’t stay away from me for long!” 

“You shut up and come here,” you grumble, and pull him in again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people are laughing very loudly in the hallway #thirdfloorlife


	3. quiet every tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has soft, smooth curves like a girl; round hips like a girl’s that you want badly to run your hands over; you can see the curve of one breast, lifted with his arm as he shampoos his hair; but he’s so _male_ in expression and tone and pose, in the way he runs his hand through his sudsy hair from front to back, in how he squares his feet and narrow shoulders, in the manner with which he turns, lips curled in a half-smile that lets you know he heard the way your breath caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> john and dave get nakey nakey  
> no it's okay it's all pg so far ':>  
> also hey this is the thing i'm doing for nanowrimo my username is the same as this one  
> (i kind of cheated and got a head start shh)

November 9th, 5:44 PM

Not much changes, really, between that Sunday and the next Friday, when you finish your shift at Target after school. When you get home, sling your backpack onto a chair, and head for the living room, he’s there like every Friday, lounging on the couch, his muddy shoes on the coffee table. He still listens to that shitty ironic rap music with his shitty ironic Apple earbuds. Still bickers with you about your awesome movies, which he still claims are hedonistic wannabes and basically suck fat donkey cock. Still sucks at Mario Kart.

You can’t stop cackling when you beat him at Rainbow Road for the five HUNDREDTH time today. You started out kind of slow, tired and out of it as Target has made you, but it’s easy to get on track once Dave falls off the road several times in one lap, leaving him lagging far behind. You end up lapping him, coming in first place once again, just as he slips on a banana and spits out a string of curses. When you laugh at him, he throws a pillow at you. Incensed and still laughing, you toss it back at him and knock off the shades that were already balanced precariously on the end of his nose. It devolves into a wrestling match that he wins way too easily. You might have an advantage over him, of both height and weight, but he’s just too fast for you.

A couple things are different, though, you think, as he pins you down with one hand on each of your wrists and leans down to start kissing you. Dave seems almost... needy? He’s always desperate for attention, even if he claims otherwise. But unlike normal, where he’s gabbing in your ear or punching your arm or leaving long, red blocks of text in your messages, it comes in the form of hard, urgent kissing. You’re more than willing to oblige, but you have no clue where this new trend is FROM, or why it didn’t arrive five months earlier with the rest of the Dave-is-your-boyfriend-congratulations package.

Makeouts are cut short when the door opens and you have to push Dave off to gasp that _privacy is a thing, Dad!_ He just gives you a fatherly thumbs up, probably proud of your game-- you roll your eyes, Dave returns the gesture twofold-- and tells you both that dinner is ready. Grunting, you pull off your sweater and follow Dave into the dining room, where Dad’s set out a platter of tiny sandwiches (egg salad, turkey, almond butter with raspberry jam) with toothpicks in them and some fresh veggies from the miniature farm he runs out back. Dave digs in enthusiastically while you gripe about how _fancy_ and _overblown_ he has to make everything. Those turkey sandwiches win out, though. They’re irresistible. In the end, you follow Dave’s lead and stuff your face with them.

After you’ve successfully managed to cram your stomach full of bread, and managed to avoid the snap peas and carrots entirely, you let your forehead rest on the table with a thump, yawning. “Okay, I’m ready to sleep for twenty hours now.”

“Not so fast, buster,” Dave mutters from where he’s slouched in his own chair, feet up on the table again. At least he’s taken his shoes off, though those socks really aren’t an improvement. “I’m staying over tonight. Bro’s got a gig at some nightclub and he wants me to stay with you.”

“Ooh, sending your son to stay with his boyfriend overnight,” you snort. “What kind of parent is he, again?”

“The hilariously inept kind who slaps you on the back and says ‘Go get ‘em, tiger’ when you ask him the same thing.” He’s probably rolling his eyes behind those glasses. “He’s no parent, dumbass, he’s my bro.”

Bro, right, sure. “Uh huh. Well, we’re keeping it PG in here today. I don’t even have enough energy to walk. In fact, I think the proper boyfriend thing to do is carry me.”

“God, no. What are you, two hundred pounds?” He scoots his chair back with a loud screech and stands up, clapping his hands together. “I ain’t carryin’ nobody, son. You can haul your own lazy ass upstairs.”

“Hundred sixtyyy,” you whine. “Daaaave.”

“I don’t wanna get crushed, dude. Sorry. Not doing this romantic bridal-carry shit with you.”

You heave yourself to your feet, pouting at him.

He snorts. “Come on, you fucking three year old. I need a shower. Gotta know where the towels are.”

“You know where my towels are,” you gripe, trailing after him. “On the rack, like always. Remember?”

He doesn’t reply. You’re starting to get the feeling he has something else he wants to do, and your suspicions are proven correct when you finally make it to your room, dump your backpack in the corner, and are immediately grabbed by Dave, who reaches his arms around your neck and pulls you into another kiss.

“God damn, dude, I’m not going anywhere,” you mumble against his lips. He nods, but keeps kissing you, even after you stop trying to reciprocate. “Dave.”

“Mmh, what,” he grumbles, finally pulling away.

“Why are you being so kissy recently?” For a half a second, he looks startled behind his shades, and you shrug helplessly. “When we were dating before, I was the one who did this shit! You didn’t like it.”

“I always liked it, I just...” He shrugs. “You know.”

“No, I don’t?” He’s being annoyingly vague.

“Come on,” he groans, taking your hands and putting them on his sides. You try to draw them away immediately because he HATES you touching his sides, but he grabs your wrists this time and forces them back. “Isn’t it kind of obvious when you start getting touchy-feely like this?”

“Isn’t what kind of--”

He begins to move your hands down together, tracing your palms over his hips, and you let out a soft sound when you find what’s usually so well disguised-- curves.

Right.

Honestly, with Dave acting so normal at school and everybody treating him like they normally do, you’d kind of started to forget. A shot of guilt goes through you at the realization.

And a shot of surprise, because suddenly the weird looks people shoot him sometimes make more sense than you’d thought. It’s not because he leads a secret cult of coolkids, like you’ve teased him about all this time. It’s not because of the strong aura of charisma he claims to have. It’s them trying to figure him out. You feel horribly defensive on his behalf. What business is it of theirs? Dave is a BOY.

“Curves,” you mumble, running your hands back up until they’re almost at his ribcage. There, he stiffens, catching your arms again. You can just feel the edge of something before you pull your fingers away. It makes you feel nauseated. Bandages? Horrible.

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “So it wasn’t you, asshole. Happy now?”

“Oh--” You pull him into a fierce hug, rocking back and forth on your feet. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Dave!”

“Don’t be sorry-- god, you’re an idiot.” He shoves you, grinning at your little “Hey!” of protest. “I’m sexy,” he declares. “You’re lucky. You should be SWOONING. You should be BEGGING to touch me.”

You pause, then pretend to faint. “Ooh, Mister Strider! Take me now!”

He shoots you a thumbs-up like the one he gave your dad. “Damn right. You’re just lucky I want to kiss you now.”

“You’ve been wanting to kiss me the whole time we’ve been together,” you say.

He pauses, gazing up at you. “John, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a long time.”

It’s almost brutally honest compared to his normal jokery. He can sense it, too, and immediately forces out a laugh. “Seriously, how dense can you get? By sophomore year, you were the only one NOT gathered outside my window on Valentine’s Day shouting ‘Kiss him! Kiss him!’ Everyone knew except--”

“Blah, blah, I’m gorgeous,” you interrupt. “Heard this stupid story a million times.” You know you’re still flushed, though. He’s grinning even wider now. What an asshole. You scowl at him. “And you DID kiss me. You kissed me a LOT when we first got together. But then you stopped, and I thought it meant that you wanted to break up with me, idiot!”

“No, it meant I’d dropped my guard initially and I didn’t want to be outed before I was ready, IDIOT,” he mocks.

“You can always drop your guard around me, DUMBASS,” you shoot back. He punches your shoulder and you yelp. He might be little, but god damn, he hits hard.

He snickers, too. Wounded, you punch him back. “Asshole.”

“Shut up.” He stands on his toes to kiss you again. “I’m gonna take a shower now, dude. The stank is real. Need to get all gussied up for a fantastic night out with by boyfriend. You can just lounge around waiting for me like always.”

You nod, but stay quiet as he goes to fetch some of your clothes and grabs a towel off the rack. Then, when he starts to close the door, you stand. “Dave, wait.”

He looks back at you, the tiniest frown on his face. “Yeah?”

“I...” You glance down at him, at how he subtly hides his chest with the folded towel, the way he stands with his shoulders slumped and his feet squared. Little habits you accepted long ago. They’re all to make him look more male. You don’t want to ruin the image he’s so carefully set up for himself.

“Never mind,” you mumble.

“No... what did you wanna say?” He nudges the door open more.

“I just... I wanted to ask if I could shower with you. Like...” You gesture. “If I could see you.”

He exhales, and you have the distinct feeling you’ve taken him off guard. You scramble to fix it. “I-I mean, I realized how stupid it was right after--”

He interrupts you with an impassive shrug. “Yeah, sure.”

“Wh--”

He kicks the door open further. “Come on in.”

Has he _forgotten_?

You slowly go to him, bypassing your dresser. “Are you sure...?”

“Mm, why not?” He avoids your eyes as he busies himself setting out his various shampoos and body soaps. (All from the men’s beauty aisle, you note. Well, of course. Of course he’s going to buy guy products. What are you thinking?) “Been six months, we might as well do the chivalrous thing and eagerly strip each other of all garments while passionately making out.”

“Okay... just...” You shrug lamely, reaching out to grab your hairbrush and toss it nervously back and forth between your hands. “Let me know if you get uncomfortable?”

He lets out a noise that’s something between a snort and a “Pshhh,” but after a slight pause, he nods hesitantly. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” You run the bristles of the hairbrush across your palm, looking at the floor. “Do you want to go first, or...”

“Damn, John, we’re not two hookers deciding who gets the pole first,” he snaps, yanking the brush out of your hands. “We’re taking a shower together. How far will we take this? Nobody knows, unless we damn well get down to it.”

“Okaaay,” you mumble, moving to take your shirt off. You think he’s being too sensitive, or maybe not sensitive enough. Should you respect him and turn away?

“See, look at you, tryna be all polite and respectful and shit,” he says aggressively, tossing the brush at you. You’re too busy taking your shirt off to catch it. It hits you in the stomach. “Dave, ow!”

“Toughen up, man, least it’s not a shitty katana.” He reaches down to peel his shirt off. Maybe out of fear, you turn your back.

He doesn’t protest.

You can hear his shirt land on the floor with a soft thump, and then something quieter-- less heavy-- follows. Must be his binder. After that, there’s another (you have no idea what that was), then silence. You can hear him take a quiet, shuddering breath.

“Dave?” you say softly. “You...”

“No,” he bites back. You hear more shuffling behind you, this time slightly frantic. His pants. Your boyfriend must be taking off his pants. You take a deep breath. “Tell me when I should turn around.”

His tone is dry when he responds. “You were the one who decided to hide his virgin eyes in the first place.”

“Yeah, well, I’m nervous!”

“Take your time, bucko.” You can almost feel him rolling his eyes at you.

There’s the familiar sound of your shower turning on. You bend over to start taking off your own pants, scooting your underwear off with them. God, you’re naked. You’re both naked. Somehow, you feel like you’re even more terrified than Dave is.

You stand there for a while with your eyes closed, trying to convince yourself that everything’s going to be okay, when you hear his voice, slightly muffled by the shower door. “John, are you gonna come in and actually shower with me? Or are you just going to stand there and listen to the sexy sounds of me washing myself? Because I’m cool with either.”

“Oh,” you say. “I just wanted to make sure you were, like, absolutely, one hundred percent--”

“Joooohn,” he groans. “Come on. The view of your naked ass through this fogged up glass is too tempting. Just give me this one thing.”

Letting out half a snicker, you start to turn, keeping your eyes on the floor. At first, all you feel is immense relief upon not seeing a pile of bandages lying on top of his shirt. Instead, it’s this weird looking strip of cloth. Like a crop top. Is that really what a binder looks like? You thought it would be more like some kind of medieval torture device.

“I'm waaaaiting,” he groans.

Yeah, you’ve wasted enough time already.

You look up.

His back is to you, but when you make a little squeaky sound of embarrassment upon seeing bare skin, he half turns, pushing the glass door open again, and

oh.

Oh...

It’s more of a surprise than you thought.

You’d been preparing yourself for this. You thought you’d at least be able to see him without feeling absolutely startled out of your skin, but...

Dave.

Dave actually does have a girl’s body.

Not a girl’s body, you remind yourself belatedly. He has soft, smooth curves like a girl; round hips like a girl’s that you want badly to run your hands over; you can see the curve of one breast, lifted with his arm as he shampoos his hair; but he’s so _male_ in expression and tone and pose, in the way he runs his hand through his sudsy hair from front to back, in how he squares his feet and narrow shoulders, in the manner with which he turns, lips curled in a half-smile that lets you know he heard the way your breath caught. He doesn’t wear those shades in the shower. Of course he doesn’t! But you forgot how long and curled and golden his eyelashes are, the striking red of his eyes, the--

“Got your eyeful?” he says, lowering his arm. You feel his gaze flicker over your own body, lingering on your chest, hips, and crotch, the places that are so starkly different from his own soft body. You’re so tempted to cover yourself up, hide the hot tongues of shame that are licking their way up your body, god you’re so self-conscious--

“Oh, get in,” he whispers. “You look nice, dummy.”

It’s such an out-of-thin-air compliment for him. So unexaggerated and genuine you immediately feel better.

“You look...” You scan his body again, now that he’s fully facing you. Nicks and scars from various strifes. Tiny breasts, maybe a B cup? You can see tight muscles down his stomach from fighting. There’s a cute little triangle of curly golden hair at his crotch. And then, below it, nothing. You take a deep breath. Okay, you were expecting that. “Incredible,” you breathe, stepping forward to brush some soapy hair out of his face. “I was kind of startled, wow...”

“It’s a guy’s body. I’m a BOY,” he asserts, swiping at your face. You laugh, taking a step back. “Okay, okay, I know! You look handsome!”

“Damn right,” he mutters, turning back to scrub furiously at his hair.

You carefully remove your glasses, placing them on the counter. Dave’s just a blond and tan blur now.

“Okay, coming in--” you announce, stepping into the water. “--SHIT, how hot do you need it to BE?" You turn the temperature down, stepping out of the spray. “Do you want to boil alive?”

“Shut up, I need it hot!” He scrambles to turn it back up.

You block him. “Nooooo!”

“Asshat!” He goes to shove you, but seems to remember you’re in the shower and stops.

Then it’s quiet, and you stare at his blurry form. Without your glasses, you can’t see the red of his eyes anymore. You can still see the fuzzy outline of his body.

“Dave,” you say, quiet with apprehension.

He quits scrubbing his hair and looks up at you. “Huh?”

“Can I... can I touch you?” you whisper.

There’s a tiny pause. You feel his gaze sharpen, though you can’t see his eyes anymore.

Then he shrugs, going back to scrubbing his hair. “Dude, you’re my boyfriend. That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

“I know, I know!” You take a slippery step forwards, cautiously extending your hands. “I just... I was worried about...”

“Worried about what?” His face turns towards your hands. “John, look, just--” He grabs your arms with shampooed hands. “I’ll be FINE. Quit acting so weird.”

“Not acting weird!” You yank your hands away. “Okay. Fine. Tell me if--”

“Joooooohn,” he sighs, like a director being forced to film the same scene for days on end. “Can’t you just treat me like you used to? No personal space whatsoever? The cuddling MASTER?”

“But--” Before, he didn’t even want you to kiss him! You had to be sneaky to even get cuddles, for god’s sake. He’s acting so exasperated with you! Confused, you take another glance at his face.

If his expression is readable at all, you can’t see jack shit anyways.

“Fine,” you breathe, taking another step. Ever so gently, you rest your hands on his hips. A light touch, to be sure, but you can see all his senses alight and know he’s more nervous than his scoffing and scorn say. Still, he said it was okay, and you’re finding yourself fascinated with him anyway, the soft edges of his body, accented with hard lines of muscle, that you can’t see through the steam and astigmatism.

“See?” he grunts. “No nuclear apocalypse. No police busting through our door. No--”

“Woooow,” you breathe, tracing your way up his ribcage. He’s pretty skinny, isn’t he? Dave never eats as much as he should. Idiot.

“What.” He reaches up until he can wrap his arms around your neck. “Am I gooorgeous?”

“In your dreams!” But you keep sliding your hands around, flat-palmed to his shoulder blades, down to the small of his back... he’s so round and smooth and cute, still a little slippery from the soap, smelling of apple shampoo...

“You’re so... wow...” You run a palm across his stomach. “Hahaha, Dave! Why didn’t you tell me you had abs?”

“It was a given.” His head is tilted to watch you explore him, but you like to hope he’s grinning.

“A given? What kind of science rule says that!”

“Called the I Fight With Swords Against Grown Men rule. God, Egbert, you need to pay attention in class more.”

You frown. “I pay so much attention in class! You’re the one texting me under the table all day.”

“Can’t resist my sexyhot boyfriend.” He shrugs, takes his arms away, and begins rinsing his hair. Under the harsh light of the bathroom, you can see little rivulets of water running down his back. Looking at the way fuzzed shadows fall across his body make you feel dizzy. You wish you could wear your glasses in the shower.

“I looove yooou,” you whisper.

“Love this shapely bod, more like,” he says, dabbing some shampoo on your forehead.

“Noooo, Dave, I love yooooou!”

“Good to know.” He SOUNDS sarcastic, sure, but you know he loves you too. You grin as you turn away to grab your soap.

Showering goes pretty normally after that. Dave washes his hair three times, assuring you it’s perfectly normal-- important for his beauty regimen. He also shaves his armpits. You get a punch and the silent treatment for a good five minutes, and afterwards, a longwinded explanation on how itchy the fabric of his binder is against armpit hair, for suggesting that it’s a girly thing to do. He also asks you to turn away for what he stiffly calls “the ritualistic cleaning of the lady bits,” which gets a horrible high-pitched giggle out of you. You guess it makes sense he has to clean up there, especially with how meticulously he cleans everything else, but isn’t it horribly awkward?

“Done,” he finally says. “You?”

You nod, reaching to turn off the shower. “You were the one who took so long!”

“Beauty doesn’t come easy,” he claims, opening the shower door for you with a bow.

“It does for me!” you tease, grabbing his towel for him. He makes a grab for it, but you beat him to it, wrapping him in it until his arms are trapped at his sides.

He struggles, kicking your ankle. “Joooohn! Get your own damn straitjacket.”

“Hmm... no.” You cradle him in your arms, kissing the top of his wet hair. “I’m gonna cuddle you so good.”

“First Amendment! First Amendment! I want my rights read to me!” He scuffs his foot repeatedly against your shin. Except he’s not wearing shoes, so it doesn’t do anything.

You scoop him up in your arms, kissing at his face. “That’s not even what the First Amendment says, what the fuck have you been studying?”

“Protection from bodily harm! Where’s that one? Cruel and unusual--”

“Yoooou loooove meeeee,” you coo.

“You’re a fuckin’ threat to my masculinity,” he grumbles, swatting your arm. “Put some clothes on, GOD you’re indecent.”

“Can’t I lounge around in a fluffy towel?” you pout, setting him back down and grabbing your glasses.

“Whatever, man, it’s your house. Just don’t attack me like that or I’m calling the cops.”

You put the hairbrush to your ear like a phone. “Hello, police? There’s a man in my house trying to kill me. Yes, he’s wielding excessive amounts of homosexuality. You heard me right. The man is gay, I tell you. He’s showering me in undesirable affection. I need a SWAT team here, stat.”

Dave makes a grab for the hairbrush, holding it to his mouth like a microphone. “Hello, cops police? Send your best men out here. This one’s off his fucking rocker. He’s gotten a romantic shower outta me and I’m terrified of what he’s gonna do next--”

You reach forwards to tickle him and he tosses the brush away dramatically, faking a scream. “He’s got me! Save me, mister cop, save m--”

You end up rolling around on the bathroom floor, muffling shrieks of laughter. You should have thought this through better. You’re so much more ticklish than he is. By the time you’ve both stopped laughing, your sides are burning. He’s lying next to you, one arm flopped over your chest, holding back peals of laughter. You poke his side again and he squeaks, batting at your arm weakly.

“Wanna go lay on the couch?” you suggest after a while, grinning up at the ceiling.

“No...” he mumbles, rolling slowly over to rest his head on your chest.

“Daaaave,” you say, poking his head. “I wanna lie down.”

“You ARE lying down, aren’t you?” He slaps your hand away. “Stupid tickle fight wiped me.”

“At least get dressed,” you plead.

“You don’t WANT to admire me?”

“I would all day if I could, but I don’t think my dad wants to see you naked when I carry you downstairs,” you say, throwing a shirt at him.

“Fiiiiine,” he grumbles, and starts getting dressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry i suck at chapter ends ;w;  
> ALSO BABES this is more a series of drabbles than anything so if you wanna hurl a plot for a chapter at me i'd be more than willing to take it into consideration


	4. where the waters do not curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You feel like an outsider again. An intruder in a foreign body. You could have tried contouring this morning. You could have used the tighter binder. Could have stuck out your jaw a little further, slumped a little more in your chair, spread your legs a little wider...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagine a teeny warning label stuck up here with a little red exclamation point on it  
> there is a bit of misgendering and a lot of mentions of dysphoria in this chapter  
> nothing that should be upsetting but!! just making sure

November 13th, 3:15 AM

“Brotherly love really shouldn’t extend this far,” you slur, sleepily fumbling for your weapon. Where the fuck did you leave it last night? 

“‘S how it goes, kid,” he says, idly leaning on the wall and inspecting his own blade, which glints with the sliver of moonlight your curtains let slip. He freshly sharpened it not twenty minutes ago. You know because it woke you up. 

At three in the morning. 

Brothers. 

You finally find the damn sword, rubbing your eyes with your free hand, and immediately have to duck as his own blade comes at you, slicing the air less than an inch from your head. 

“Christ’s left ballsack, at least give me time to get out of bed first!” Swearing under your breath, you toss the quilt off and leap out of bed, ignoring the dull oozing pain that weighs heavy on your abdomen. Bro doesn’t stop for menstruation and neither does his sword, which you immediately have to dodge again. 

“Time stops for no man, little brother,” he says seriously, and then he’s balanced on your bed, still swinging at you. 

“Holy shit, Bro, can we do this somewhere else?” you plead, glancing back at the glass jars precariously organized on your shelf. “I don’t-- hrghh--” You’re too slow for just a moment, and a long, horizontal cut appears just under your ribcage. “Owww--! Fuck-- Bro, just gimme a damn sec--” 

“Get your guard up. Wakey wakey,” he coaches, swinging slower this time. You catch his sword unsteadily and wrench it sideways to try to disarm him, but he’s too strong for you. He counters, twisting your wrist until the sword comes clattering out of your hand. 

“It’s three in the morning on a Tuesday--” You leap to the side, squeezing your stinging fingers into a fist. He yanks the sword out of the wall where it hit, swearing under his breath. While he’s occupied, you leap across the bed and tackle him. “--and you’re attacking me in my room, and I want to take a shower in water, not embalming flui--” He flips you over before you can finish, pinning you to the carpet with one hand on your chest. 

You go limp willingly. “Can you give me a BREAK? My stomach really hurts, man!” 

He raises an impassive eyebrow. “Fight through it.” 

“No, shut up, you have literally no idea what it’s like having your uterus turn itself repeatedly inside out!” 

“Kid, do I have to threaten you?" 

You push uselessly at his hand, trying to get him off. “Can you just get your hand off my tits, let me change my pad and go back to sleep now? I’m already bleeding from two gaping holes in my body. Don’t need another.” 

He stands, leaving you panting on the carpet, and dusts his hands off like he’s just been planting fucking flowers. 

“Change your pad,” he says. “See you on the roof. Character building, Dave.” 

You make as much noise as you can on your way to the bathroom. 

Three in the morning, and he’s goddamn attacking you? You were up late last night finishing a paper! Finals are coming up fast! You don’t get enough sleep as it is, and shit, you don’t have TIME for this! And while you’re on your period, too? Binding hurts your stupid achey chest, walking hurts your thighs and stomach, strifing hurts EVERYWHERE and is ABSOLUTELY not a thing that needs to happen, and yet he expects you to do whatever he wants to because he’s fucking _bored_! 

You told him you were a boy, but god damn, you still want him to be respectful of the blood leaking out of you. 

You stick a pad in your underwear (shark week forces you to wear panties underneath your boxers, whoop-dee-fucking-doo) and another on the inside of your shirt where his sword got you, then stare at the floor until you can’t bear it anymore and have to lie down. Soon you’re groaning out your pain into the linoleum, sword next to you, as Bro carries on a long, one-sided conversation on the other side of the door. Something about Strider family values and self-discipline. Something about making a man out of you. You want him to burst into song like John’s dad does sometimes. You also want him to be in the kitchen, making you a delicious breakfast and minding his own business. Like John’s dad. 

“Dave,” he says in his Serious voice, and raps on the door. “Lookin’ to hurl swords at something that doesn’t stay still. You’re a good target. Come on.” 

“Why doesn’t Cal take a turn,” you complain, pressing your forehead into the rug. 

“Har dee har, funnyman. Cal doesn’t move unless I tell him to.” 

“Tell him to move, then, god. He can’t be THAT morbidly obese yet.” 

“You would still love him if I told you he is, right? I think he needs love, Dave. I think you need to love him.” 

“Brooooo,” you whine, smacking your palm against the floor. “Go throw swords at your shitty robots or something and leave me alone, jesus...” 

“No pain, no gain." 

“I aaam in pain. So much pain...” The slice out of your side isn’t even the half of it. Isn’t even a quarter. Isn’t even a tiny CHIP out of the horrible crampy bullshit that’s making your body feel like it’s sinking through the floor. 

_(you should not be this way)_

There’s a little shot of distant, cold unfamiliarity through your stomach, an odd, discomforting feeling that starts down in the pit of your stomach and starts to grow, in those strange areas, those heavy, metallic parts that stick to you like burrs. Your thighs, your chest-- fuck, your _breasts_ \-- your hips, your groin. You roll onto your side and curl into a ball, eyes squeezing shut. Fine, so today’s going to be one of _those_ days. See if you fucking care. 

It’s not like you can’t man the fuck up and deal with it. 

You end up falling asleep on the bathroom floor, like the desperately exhausted piece of shit that you are. By the time another wave of aching nausea rolls over you to wake you up, it’s already ten o’clock. 

“Shit,” you grunt, rolling onto your back. 

Honestly, you lie there for a while, wondering if you should even show up to school at all. But the prospect of seeing and complaining to John coaxes you off your ass and to the kitchen, where you take your damn sweet time toasting a pop tart and eating it, tensed the whole time and ready for Bro’s attack. The asshole seems done trying to fight with you now, but it’s best to always be on guard. Just in case. 

You’ve missed the bus, obviously, but that’s nothing new; you only take that hellhole of an excuse for public transportation when it’s raining. Instead, you walk the half mile or so and end up arriving about halfway through second period, which you figure is good enough. You’ve done a lot worse. 

First period was the bullshit music theory class that you’re only taking for the credits, so you don’t do much but drop by the teacher’s office and take the worksheet from that day off the door. Hopefully she won’t even realize you weren’t there today. Most music teachers are kind of like that, you’ve noticed. 

Your next class, thank christ’s omnipotent meddling or whatever the fuck liked you enough to cash in your karma points, has John in it. Ethics is another boring hour and fifteen minutes, but attending is probably a thing you should do, if only to give her the essay you were up until midnight writing. 

When you drop in, you’re all too pleased to see all eyes on you. Half of them are the (you're pretty sure) awed gazes the juniors and sophomores in the class give you; a good third are the disapproving brown-nosers that you like to humor just because it’s hilarious. The remainder are your friends, who as usual roll their eyes at the grin you shoot them. John’s sitting in the front where he usually is because his eyes are shit, and he gives you a disapproving glare when you shoot him a thumbs-up. 

You take your time strolling to the teacher’s desk and setting your own paper on top of the rest of the horridly written, hastily MLA formatted drivel. Then, giving the teacher a not-really-apologetic wink, you slide into your chair. “Sup.” 

“Dave,” the teacher says calmly, picking up your paper and examining it. 

“Yeah, I said sup." You bend over, taking your book out as an excuse for not meeting her eyes. 

“Would you mind explaining why you’re... twenty eight minutes late for class?” she asks, in that horribly cliche snooty teacher voice. 

“Slept past my alarm. Ain’t much of a story.” You grin up at her. “Aren’t you wasting valuable class time, ma’am?” 

She gives you a stern look and turns back to the board, where some concept you don’t care about is outlined in heavy yellow chalk. 

As soon as she starts talking loud enough to drown it out, John balls up a piece of paper and tosses it your way. It soars over seven rows of students and hits you in the chest, despite your best attempts to catch it, so you hold both arms in the air like a football star who just made the touchdown of a lifetime (people snicker; you can HEAR it) before uncrumpling it to read what he’s written. 

dude, isn’t this the class you have a c minus in??   
why the hell are you late, that is not a good move to pull before finals!

You flip him off from across the room, mostly for the reactions it’ll draw from the people who are watching, and scribble down a wobbly reply. Writing makes your wrist throb. You can already see it beginning to swell. But you ball it back up anyway and toss it at him. Like always, you miss by several feet, but by now the people who pick it up know that if they lay a fucking eyeball on the notes you and John are passing, they’ll be dead by dawn. 

hey whoa there sportso slow down before you get fuckin whiplash  
aint my fault the alarm was having a harder time than normal   
give the thing a break its getting over a divorce and the loss of custody of its kid and two dogs  
hell i wouldnt be surprised if it picks up some nasty habits with the pressure youre putting on it john give it a rest jesus  
every proper dude needs a day to sit in his man cave and sip his beer and if that isnt the straightest sentence i have ever written to you im worried about our relationship   
reading that back makes me feel dizzy   
and fuck you i have a shining c average and you know it  
who the fuck needs ethics anyway

He doesn’t have the same kind of skills as you do, so maintaining a deadpan expression is obviously harder. You keep your gaze locked on your desk so his grin doesn’t come back to bite. Specifically, you’re admiring the masterfully drawn phallus someone carved into the wood. God damn, that thing is a beauty. Layers upon layers of thick, greasy irony. Slather that shit all over your body and you’ll be straight on your way to heaven. 

The next piece of paper hits you in the head. 

the alarm clock probably deserved that divorce if it’s so shitty at its job.   
dave i know you wake up early on weekdays, it is a fact of life!  
is there something wrong? :( 

wow nosy are we  
just cause the early bird gets the worm doesnt mean the bird cant get some damn shuteye every once in a blue moon  
im fine 

i’m not an idiot, jeez.  
you were limping and your shirt is untucked. 

You hastily tuck your shirt in, gritting your teeth. Fuck him for knowing how eager you are to maintain your unique brand of fashion. 

okay fine fine jesus  
youve wormed it out of me i guess egbert  
just dont go around spewing this shit like a fuckin geyser  
this is some private shit keep it on the down low  
between two sexy bfs or w/e  
im kind of on my period right now ok  
pls dont act weird about it  
also bro totally decided to sharpen his sword at three in the morning using me as his unwilling grindstone and no fuck you thats not a double entendre   
he literally tried to stick his goddamn shitty katana in me  
i had to sleep in the bathroom  
soaked in blood  
look can you scribble some of this out or something so nobody else can see it god damn im having secondhand embarrassment even thinking of the face youre gonna make

You watch him out of the corner of your eye after you toss it back, still pretending to admire the stupid penis on the desk. 

As he reads, his eyes widen a little, and his mouth makes the cutest little “oh” of realization. Or it would be cute, if some people weren't still watching the two of you. You shoot them a flat, tight-lipped look that they can hopefully put meaning into themselves, and they quit it. 

God bless John, though, because when the paper comes flying back your way again, much of what you wrote is scribbled over in blue pen, rendering it mostly unreadable. 

oh man, sorry about that.  
haha that would suck so bad.  
you should totally walk to lunch with me today.  
i’m going to starbucks.  
you can get an ironic frappe or whatever.  
i’ll pay, because i am a gentleman like that.  
<3

alright bud its a date  
so fuckin romantic romeo is jealous 

After tossing it halfheartedly back at him, you fall asleep at your desk, and you’re glad to not even have to think about budging until John shakes you awake for lunch. You lift your head off the desk-- great, now there’s gonna be a red mark on your forehead-- and have to force a grimace off your face as another rolling wave of nausea hits you. You glance around. The classroom’s empty other than John and a classmate in the corner who’s hastily shoveling her books into her backpack. As soon as she leaves, you let out a loud groan of complaint and rest your head on your arms, expecting him to start nagging you about your grades or your attendance or something. 

Instead, you feel his hand on your back. 

“You okay?” 

He says it so gently, but you think it’s damn well gonna crack your heart. 

“‘M fine,” you reply, drawing in your arms for a better pillow. “Head hurts. Stomach hurts. Chest hurts. ‘S the door closed?” 

“Yeah.” He laughs. “Your reputation is safe with me.” 

There’s a screech and a grunt as what must be four flimsy desk legs clatter across the floor, and then you can feel him settling next to you, peering concernedly at you. “Does it hurt?” 

“No fucking shit.” You turn your head to look at him. “It feels like I’m being turned inside out. I think you should kill me now, just to spare me the pain.” 

There’s a tiny smile on his face. You think it might be of fondness. Gross. “We don’t have to go to Starbucks for lunch,” he offers. “I have lunch. You can have my chips.” 

Resting your nose on the crook of your elbow, you close your eyes again. “Can we stay in here?” Here, where it’s quiet. 

“Sure,” he whispers, going to kiss your forehead. You find yourself leaning into it without even thinking, which is definitely a habit that’s going to come back to bite you in the ass later. He reaches into his backpack for the stupid nerdy Ghostbusters lunchbox he’s been toting around since fifth grade and pulls out a bag of Lays. 

“Really,” you scoff. “Lays? You know I don’t take that nasty airy shit.” 

“Yeah, you do,” he says, pushing the bag at you. “Don’t be such an elitist about something like chips, Dave, god.” 

“Uuuuuughhhhhh, they DISGUST me,” you groan, sliding your arm out to knock the Lays off the desk. They land on the floor with a fucking pansy ass _whuff_ noise that almost makes you feel sorry for them. 

There’s a slight pause, where he stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Then, with a chuckle, he scoots his chair even closer, and picks them up. You purse your lips when he places them on the desk again, running a hand over your cheek. “Dave, come on, look at me.” 

You make sure he can see the resentful look you give him over the tops of your shades when you obey. 

“You can stay at my house tonight, if you want." He runs his fingers over your jaw. “That way nobody will wake you up, and you can go to bed whenever you want. Except it’ll be early, because you need sleep.” He pushes your shades onto your forehead before you can even object, tracing the dark stains under your eyes that you usually hide from him. “Look at how sleepy you are. Aww...” 

“Don’t fucking condescend to me,” you growl, still not moving. Shit, you’ve always loved how gentle his touch can get. 

“Dave...” he sighs, letting his forehead rest against yours with a tiny bump that sets it throbbing. You whine, and he winces, rubbing your back. “Sorry. Can I kiss you?” 

“You are so single-minded,” you complain. “Fine, I guess I can indulge you in some kinky porn-setting classroom makeouts. Did you bring the cameras this time?” 

“You're weird.” He kisses the tip of your nose. You grunt, and he giggles. “I miss you, Dave... you need to kiss me more.” 

“Do I?” you snort. 

“You were the one who said you wanted to more.” 

You can’t argue with that smile. 

He makes a sound as you lean into kiss him, a breathy, fascinated one, and your lips curl into the beginnings of a smile as he rests a soft hand on your cheek. The bar that connects the chair to the table digs into your stomach, a cold, heavy weight, but at least it’s not the worrisome distraction that presses relentlessly at your gut every time you think of blood and cramps and pain and everything horrible that comes with being born in this body. 

“Mmmh,” you groan, wrapping your arms around his neck. He feels you leaning further into him and smoothes his hands down your back, creating tracks of tingling shivers that linger behind his fingers. You shiver. He can probably feel your desperation, but fuck you, it’s shark week and you want his hands on your neck and your cheeks and your back and everywhere that isn’t tingling with _wrongness_. You might have been okay at stifling it before, but now you don’t have to, and somehow that makes it even worse. 

He must be able to sense your urgency, because he falters just the tiniest bit before pressing forwards even harder, trailing his fingers down your spine and around your hips. You sigh into his mouth, fists curling in his hair. He sighs right back, hands roaming your body, and the reverent way he touches you makes you feel like maybe you are a boy anyway, and maybe you do deserve to feel his hands on you like this, and maybe you do belong-- 

“Excuse me?” a concerned voice says from the doorway. 

“Gyaaah,” John says loudly, leaping back. A tiny trail of drool follows from the corner of your mouth and sticks to his chin. He makes another, choked sound and hastily wipes it off. You settle back in your own chair and pop open the bag of chips like you were eating lunch this whole time. Nope. You’re not embarrassed. Who’s embarrassed? 

Thankfully, the teacher looks more amused and grossed out than angry. You recognize her. She’s the short, kind of naive one who teaches freshmen english. (One of those teachers who give you Looks in the hall, hasty, judgemental glances as she rushes past that make you fold into yourself a little more.) 

“Bo-- students...” she says, and you can feel the slight hesitation catch in her voice as she looks you up and down. She can see your shirt clinging to your sides where John’s hands were, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, and your carefully styled hair now mussed and sticking to your forehead. She’s tried to read you, and now she has. You immediately detest her. 

"You're going to have to leave," she says to John, who's leapt to his feet. "You and your..." Her gaze on you again, a slow, steady burn. "Girlfr--" 

You stiffen with a strangled noise before you can stop yourself, half a chip dropping from your mouth. 

She stares impassively at you, one eyebrow raised. “Excuse me, m--” 

“Sorry,” John interrupts, not looking very sorry at all as he gathers up his lunch. He can probably feel your invisible hackles up. The way he raises his eyebrows at her as he grabs his backpack has you pretty damn sure you’re not going to be letting any ignorant people walk away home free anymore. 

“Sometimes I can’t keep my hands off my _boyfriend_ ,” he stresses, hitching his backpack higher up onto his shoulders, and drags you past her before you can even say anything. 

He seems to forget it after that, but you seethe in frustrated silence all through third and fourth period, and once it’s finally time to head home, you’ve actually agitated yourself to the point where you have a pounding nervous headache behind your eyes and have to hide the shaking of your hands by shoving them in your pockets. You barely manage to give the people who call out to you in the hall a nod or a gesture of recognition. You feel like an outsider again. An intruder in a foreign body. You could have tried contouring this morning. You could have used the tighter binder. Could have stuck out your jaw a little further, slumped a little more in your chair, spread your legs a little wider... 

John, as usual, meets you at your locker, which is conveniently right near the front door. You’ve been doing your best to hide your bad temper, and people haven’t seemed to notice it so far. Thank god for your awesome poker face. 

He seems to catch on to your mood immediately, though, like a dog sensing an approaching storm. As soon as you reach him, he enfolds you in a virtual fucking bear hug. You stand there without attempting to reciprocate; you can hear snickers from behind you as your face is crushed into his chest, and feel a hot, angry flush on your cheeks. Shut UP, you want to tell them. Fuck OFF. 

“John,” you finally grunt. “You’re my boyfriend, not my executioner.” 

He lets you go, grinning with what you want to be sheepishness. “Sorry! You looked like you needed a hug.” 

“Not HERE,” you hiss, shoving past him to grab your books. 

“Well sheesh, Oscar McGrouchypants,” he snorts, ruffling your hair. “I’m just trying to get some love and attention from you, jeez.” 

“That’s gotta wait ‘till later, babe,” you mumble, trying to tease him back and failing miserably. You can almost hear the smile fade from his face at your halfhearted tone. God dammit. 

“Dave,” he says quietly. 

“No, John, _later_ ,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” he whispers right back, grabbing your hand and squeezing. You allow yourself another moment to appreciate his existence. Those have been more and more frequent recently. 

You walk home in silence, fingers laced tightly with his. When you get home and dump your stuff on the kitchen table, grabbing the plates of beautifully sliced cheddar jack and crackers John’s fucking amazing dad must have set out for both of you before he headed to his job (how he knew you were coming, you can’t guess. Dadly sixth sense?) John doesn’t press you about your shitty mood, which you can’t even begin to thank him for. So instead, you collapse on the couch and decide to play video games instead. You, like an idiot, pick Mario Kart. Maybe you just like seeing John grinning when he beats you. 

A few rounds of that bullshit and you’re DONE with Bowser’s stupid castle, though. And John’s gloating is starting to get on your nerves. 

“Hahaha, did you see your face when I passed you again?” he says gleefully, nudging you. You sink further into your miserable fog and don’t even try to reply. He doesn’t get the hint this time, instead grinning at the screen and going to start another game. “Oh man, I know what will be HILARIOUS. I’m gonna kick your ASS this time. It’ll be so great, you’ll be so--” 

“Can you shut up?” you finally spit, dropping your remote. 

He goes quiet, looking at you with an expression that's a mix of confusion and hurt. 

There’s a stiff, static-filled silence. You glare at him, all senses pricking irritably at the tug of cotton on your skin, the scent of spices and fabric softener in John’s living room, the low, soft hum of the TV. The taste of salt and bitterness coating the back of your throat. 

“Wow, Dave, what’s--” 

“I’ll tell you what’s up, John.” You give up on trying to keep your expression neutral. Instead, you regard him with a look that’s probably somewhere between acrimony and outright fury. “I woke up at three in the morning, almost got run through with a cheap sword, probably made my Ethics grade even worse with that essay, got misgendered by some shitty transphobic woman, bled all over my underwear, and felt fucking horrible in my own fucking _female_ body, John! I got stared at all day. I have curves, I have tits, I can't walk without swaying my hips like girls do, or stand without feeling like I'm in the way-- I’m not right, I’m not supposed to--” 

“Dave,” he whispers. His hand is on yours. You realize belatedly that you’ve been frantically pawing at your sides. 

You stop, hot shame filling you to the brim. No, outbursts are not acceptable for Strider boys. Letting your temper flare, your guard down, your defenses drop, is _bad_ , it’s not-- 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, clasping your despicably tiny hand in both of his. “I’m sorry, Dave, you shouldn’t have to deal with any of this.” 

Belatedly, shockingly, you realize he’s crying. 

“Oh, no, don’t--” 

“You shouldn’t have to--” he whimpers, leaning forwards weakly to pull you in for another strangling hug. “I want you to be happy in your body, you’re so handsome and gorgeous and I love you so much...” 

“John, oh my god, don’t cry...” you mumble, patting his back awkwardly. 

His grip on you doubles. “I can't help it, I l-love you...” 

He sounds heartbroken, goddammit. So upset on your behalf. 

John’s crying because of your stupid dysphoria. 

“Oh--” you whisper, hugging him back fiercely. “Don’t be an idiot, John. There isn’t anything we can do about it and it’s okay.” 

“There isn’t?” he sniffs, squeezing you. It’s kind of starting to hurt, but you put up with it because honestly, it also makes you feel really safe. 

“Nah,” you whisper, rubbing his back. “Too busy saving up for college to pay for hormones.” 

“You have a rich brother.” 

You roll your eyes. “He wants me to pay for it myself. I’m seventeen, I should be able to by now. Or something like that.” 

“That’s shitty,” he says tearfully. “I think he should support... whatever you want to do.” 

“He does support it.” You shrug. “Just won’t pay for it.” 

“Well, that’s still shitty. If you feel this horrible he should be doing what he can to help you!” he declares. 

“That’s not what he’s like,” you mutter, carefully extracting yourself from his arms. “He wants me to be able to take care of myself. Can we stop talking about this?” 

He looks at you like you’re insane, but nods and grabs the remote. “Hey, let’s watch a movie instead, then.” 

Under your breath, you groan quietly. “What movie?” 

“Paranormal Activity.” He nudges you, grinning. 

“Holy shit, that’s not even REMOTELY good.” 

He grins and puts it on anyway, because he’s a jackass. 

And you like that movie more than you want to admit. 

What can you say? You’re a sucker for cliche, suburban horror movie families. 

John winds up lying on top of you, with his head resting on your chest and your hand in his hair, and it’s only when he starts snoring softly that you realize he’s fallen asleep. With a snicker of barely contained surprise, you gently roll him over until you’re lying next to each other instead, his hand still flopped across your chest. You’ve never felt more comfortable in your life, with half your body almost numb from his weight and cramps pulsing periodically through your stomach. 

God, he’s so good for you. 

“I love you, dickass,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head. 

In the doorway, you think you can see Mr. Egbert smiling at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dave thinks he’s really well known throughout the school because he’s so cool and suave but really it’s because everyone thinks he’s a hilarious prat.


	5. lately i'm feeling like a big bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re curled protectively around him, but he still feels so vulnerable, so hurt, and you can’t do anything but kiss the top of his head and hold him and stroke his hair, and love him so much it aches. Dave, and Dave’s tears, and Dave’s shaking, and the soft curve of his hip, and the too-fine fuzz that covers his tearstained cheeks, and the pleading, horrible look he gives you that reminds you of a dog kicked hard, without reason, in the ribs.
> 
> mild cw for a panic attack in case it bothers yall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (shocked and angry frenchman voice) HEEEEIIIN ???
> 
> HHI GUYS I HAVEn'T GIVEN UP ON THIS STORY NEVER NEVER...  
> (school killed me for four months there's your explanation)  
> (also happy 4/13)  
> (4/14)

November 16th, 7:13 PM

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 19:13 --   
TT: Dave told me the news.   
TT: I felt it appropriate to communicate with you as soon as possible.   
EB: haha, what news??  
EB: the news about him failing ethics class? because that is totally not a thing that is new.   
EB: in fact, it should be called olds.   
TT: Appropriate though that term may be, no. That is not the news I was contacting you to ask about.   
TT: He told me that you knew now.   
EB: ?  
EB: ohh, you mean the fact that he is totally gay and in love with me.   
EB: oh man, that’s not new at all either!  
TT: John, I’m serious.   
TT: This is not a joking matter.   
EB: ooohhhhhhhh!   
EB: you mean that he's trans.   
EB: yeah, he told me.   
TT: Well, the fact that you didn’t automatically jump to that conclusion is simultaneously reassuring and concerning.   
TT: I’ll choose, for now, to stick with the former.   
TT: You seem to be taking the news well.   
EB: haha, of course i am!  
EB: why wouldn’t i?  
TT: I can’t imagine.   
TT: Obviously there’s absolutely no reason why he kept this under wraps for so long.  
TT: He simply did it for fun.   
EB: uh.  
EB: what did you want to talk to me about?  
TT: I simply wanted to make sure you were doing okay.   
TT: It can be quite a lot to take in at once.   
TT: It certainly was for me.   
TT: Although I suppose it was slightly different for me, having known him as my twin sister for six or so years beforehand.   
EB: haha, that’s weird.   
TT: It certainly is.   
TT: However, he’s been my brother for almost twelve years as well, so if you need any advice, I’m right here.   
TT: A few keyboard strokes away.   
EB: yeah, yeah.  
EB: okay, i do have one question.   
EB: why doesn’t bro want to pay for surgery?  
EB: that makes me so mad, what’s wrong with dave getting rid of his boobs?  
EB: as nice as they are.  
EB: he doesn’t like them and bro is a jerk.   
EB: the other day he woke dave up at three in the morning and started attacking him with a shitty sword.   
EB: which is totally lame!   
EB: and dave was really upset.   
TT: Hm.   
TT: I’ve often asked myself the same question.   
TT: The man is quite the enigma.   
TT: Part of his reluctance might be the wonderfully cliche, YA trope idea that Dave is making a mistake.   
TT: Although I don’t believe that’s even half of it.   
TT: Honestly, that’s just how he behaves sometimes.   
TT: He has always been very distant, and very manipulative.   
TT: I think he believes Dave would be better off if he worked to pay for his own surgery.   
TT: More independent, if you will.   
EB: that’s dumb.   
EB: dave doesn’t even have a job.   
TT: All for the better, in our brother’s eyes.   
TT: He is certainly a bizarre man.   
TT: Not just anybody believes that hurling swords at your younger brother will make him a better person in the end.   
EB: augh, rose, that doesn’t help!   
EB: there is no way dave can pay for all of this.   
EB: at least, until he’s like, fifty years old!  
TT: I’m sure he’ll be just fine.   
EB: right, just like he is fine and not miserable NOW.   
EB: i’m going to help him.   
EB: i work, i can do it.   
TT: I was under the impression that those jobs were to earn money for college?  
EB: yeah don’t be stupid!  
EB: dave is obviously more important rose, duh.  
TT: At least we know where your priorities lie.   
TT: Make sure you can afford school, John.   
EB: nobody can afford school, don’t be dumb.   
EB: i would rather be in debt for YEARS and have dave be happy with his body.   
EB: even though i think he is very manly and sexy as he is.  
EB: hehehe.  
TT: That’s very sweet.   
TT: But I would consider taking a step back and looking at where you stand.  
TT: Having no money to begin with when you enter college is a very dangerous place.  
TT: I don’t think Dave is willing to let you sacrifice your relative wealth for the sake of his gender.  
EB: that’s because he is a jerk who thinks he can do everything himself.  
TT: It might be.  
TT: Don’t spend money on him if he asks you not to. That’s rude, and certainly won’t do well for his self-esteem.  
TT: Just relax and see how it goes.  
EB: >:(  
EB: no, rose, i’m not going to relax when he’s all down on himself like this!  
EB: i want him to be happy, dammit.  
TT: He is happy. He has an understanding boyfriend and a circle of very good friends.  
EB: but i want him to be REALLY happy.  
EB: didn’t he tell you about that teacher who called him a girl?  
TT: Excuse me?  
EB: oh man...  
EB: the other day we were in a classroom, uuh...  
EB: he was eating my lunch because he had cramps or something and didn’t want to go to starbucks.  
EB: and a teacher walked in and found us and called him my girlfriend.  
EB: and he got really angry and sad, and it was terrible! i had to hug him and let him win at mario kart and stuff.  
EB: i guess i just wish he was just born as a boy and he wouldn’t have to have this stuff happen to him.  
TT: I do, too.  
TT: Trust me, I have offered to help him pay as well.  
TT: He refuses, and will continue to do so to uphold the teetering display of delicately constructed virility that he has so carefully maintained.  
TT: Really, John, when is the last time Dave has let you help with something important to him?  
TT: He tries to fly solo and you know it.  
EB: yeah, well, he’s a dumbass and fuck him.  
EB: i’m talking to him as soon as he gets home from his doctor thing.  
\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 19:58 -- 

You’re in the shower when Dave gets home from his doctor’s appointment. In the middle of shampooing, actually. But you can still hear the exhaustion in how the door slams from downstairs, and when each one of his footsteps can be clearly heard, a blunt, displeased exclamation point on each stair, you’re kind of able to get a general idea of how the physical went. 

You can hear him grumbling furiously to himself as he tosses his phone and wallet onto what’s probably your dresser. He always talks to himself-- it’s cute-- but now, hearing the cracking of his voice, it just makes you cringe. You don’t know what women’s doctor appointments are like, but judging from what he’s saying, they can’t be much better than your own. 

“Breast cancer check my fuckin’ ASS,” you can just make out over the pouring water. “Just wanna poke and prod an’ stick their fingers in places they don’t belong...” His voice fades out for a couple of seconds, and you have enough time to rinse your hair out and grab the conditioner before it’s audible again. “‘...just gonna take a peek,’ yeah, I’ll fuckin’ show you where you can take your fuckin’ peek... can stick your fuckin’ fingers up your own goddamn vagina, too, if you think I’m gonna like it so much...” 

“Daaave?” you call, furiously scrubbing your hair. 

The mumbling stops briefly. Then he clears his throat. “Yeah, hey. Acoustics in there are great. D’you think you could drop a beat for--” 

“I’m not going to beatbox, and you weren’t rapping, asshole,” you scoff. “I’ll be out in a sec. Why didn’t you go home first?” 

“Don’t wanna.” His disgruntled Southern accent is thicker than ever. “Gonna get a bunch of shit questions from Bro about cervical cancer.” 

“How is everything? All healthy?” Worried, you turn the shower off and reach for your towel. You have clothes set out, but to be honest, you’re probably not going to put them on. It’s just Dave. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “Duh. The nurse got all bitchy at me for being underweight and the doctor asked me to take off the binder so he could feel me up, but other than that I survived.” 

“Feel you up?” You scowl at the ground. “Gross, dude.” 

“Yeah, but kinda necessary. You don’t want your beautiful boyfriend to have third stage breast cancer, do you? Or maybe I should, and then Bro will pay to get these things removed...” 

“Ha, ha. Do me a favor and don't get cancer.” 

You think you can hear him muttering something about John Green and metaphors, but you ignore it in favor of keeping soap out of your mouth. 

When you open the door, he’s lounging against the opposite wall, and you can feel his gaze on your face as he steps forwards to kiss you. You wrap your arms around his slender waist and think of him, sitting there on some table, with a doctor poking and prodding at all those places he tries to cover... 

They’re just doing their job, but sometimes you just really want to punch doctors. 

“Dude,” he whispers, one hand on your cheek. You start out of your daze. He’s rubbing his thumb across your chin. “You need to shave.” 

“Nah, I’m going for a sexy lumberjack sorta look,” you muse, feeling at your own stubble. 

He shoves you, snickering. “You’d look like such an asshole. Don't do that. Unless you want to start wearing plaid and carrying an axe around.” 

“You’ve got the plaid down,” you point out, gesturing to the nerdy button-up he’s wearing. “Why don’t YOU try?” 

“But I don’t have stubble, now do I,” he counters. 

You can hear a slight break in his voice as he does. 

“So, you wanna... watch a movie or something?” you suggest halfheartedly. Armageddon sounds great right now. Apocalypse films always take your mind off things. 

“Nah.” He brushes past you, sounding so painfully tired. “Wanna lie down with you...” You watch him with apprehension as he begins to undo the buttons on his shirt. What’s he doing? 

“Dave?” you say warily. He glances back at you, one eyebrow raised. When you do nothing but gesture weakly at his bare skin, he shrugs and turns back, wrestling with one of the sleeves. “You have a problem with this sexy bod?” 

He’s never this open. Never comes home and just starts undoing his shirt. Never pulls it off like it’s poison on his skin (or maybe just really itchy?) But, okay, apparently this is a new thing. Apparently Dave is okay with you seeing his stomach now. 

And it’s such a cute stomach. You want to pat it. You have the feeling that it’s not your best idea, at least judging by the way he groans when he flops onto the bed. 

"Joooohn," he complains, crawling up inch by grueling inch so he can bury his face in the pillow. 

“Whaaaat,” you say, amused. 

"I feel like shiiiiiit." 

"Well, what do you want me to do about that?" Helpless, you plop down on your ass next to him, hesitantly putting a hand on the small of his back just below where the binder ends. That’s okay, right? He doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable. He’s just... flopped out across the bed. Breathing. 

"I dunno, something," he mumbles. "Be useful for once. God damn." 

You ignore the grumpy jibe and start rubbing his back soothingly. “Mario Kart?” 

“And get my ass slaughtered and served up on a silver platter to people much richer and more fortunate than I?” He scoffs. “Not likely.” 

"I could make you something to eat?" 

"Not hungry." 

"Daaave." The idiot never eats enough. 

"Sorry," he grumbles. "I can't help not bein' hungry. ‘S what I told the nurse, too. And guess what she said? Some bullshit about eating three square meals. Then more bullshit about my ribs showing. And about my binder damaging said ribs, blah, blah, blah. Can’t fuckin’ believe...” 

“Okay, okay, shhh...” You lean down to kiss the side of his head. “I know, doctor’s appointments suck.” 

You feel his hand on the collar of your shirt, pulling. With a sigh, you oblige, lying there on your side next to him with one hand in his hair. “You don’t understand how MUCH they suck,” he complains as you comb it through with your fingers. “You’ve never had a doctor stick his gloved hand straight up in your twat like it was no big thing. Like he’s just pickin’ his nose. Disgusting.” 

“Prostate exams,” you mutter. “Those exist.” 

“Riiiight.” You can almost FEEL him rolling his eyes. “Your poor, poor prostate. Bet you’d like it if I checked up there.” 

“Eww, Dave.” 

“Bet you WOULD.” 

“Don’t be gross.” You roll your eyes, digging your fingers into a knot you’ve found in his back. He groans softly, coming undone by degrees. You grin. All he’s ever needed to give in to you is some good old pampering. 

He jumps at the chance. “Yeah, see? If the doctor was doing this, it would hurt like hell. But you have a magic touch, see. You have _abilities_. Impressive ones.” 

“That’s just because I’m so awesome,” you assure him, running your nails down his spine until he shivers and squirms out of your reach. 

“John, stop.” His voice goes quiet, elevated slightly from the flat plane he usually keeps it at. You hear it catch slightly. Fabric tearing on an old nail. 

“Aww, I was just getting started!” 

“No, John-- stop.” 

You hope he’s joking. He doesn’t look like it, though. He’s shifting slightly, then more, curling himself into a little ball and fitting himself into the shallow curve of your own body. One hand finds yours. The other rests on your chest, just below where his forehead rests. “Stop touching my back, I’m sorry...” 

“No, hey, it’s okay...” you manage, pushing blond strands of hair out of his face. “Did I make you uncomfortable? I didn't mean to...” 

The space between his eyebrows crinkles, almost imperceptibly, and his hand forms a fist in the front of your shirt. You think he might be crying. 

Your suspicions are confirmed when he speaks-- “Shit, sorry--” as though it’s his fault-- and the ball he’s made himself into only gets smaller. At first, you don’t know what to do. Shit, you don’t think you’ve seen Dave cry since... since... 

“I’m s-sorry,” he manages. Oh, god. His voice sounds so high-pitched and shaky and breathy. Like he’s lost control of it. You swallow, rubbing his back awkwardly with one hand. “No, no, shh, Dave...” 

“I-I’m not a boy,” he sniffs. “I-I try s-so hard, I s-stare at the mirror for-- for HOURS, I c-can’t see anything except this-- GIRL that I am--” 

“Oh-- Dave, no, nononono...” You hug him close to your chest, terrified. You can feel him shaking. “No, no, Dave, you’re a boy, you’ve always been, it’s okay...” 

He lets out this soft, breaking sob that rips right through you. It feels like he’s taken your heart and twisted, hard. “W-why’d I have to be so... if I’d just given up and been a g-girl from the start... but I can’t, I can’t, I c-can’t do it...” 

“You don’t have to, you don’t have to, ohh, Dave...” You’re curled protectively around him, but he still feels so _vulnerable_ , so _hurt_ , and you can’t do anything but kiss the top of his head and hold him and stroke his hair, and love him so much it aches. Dave, and Dave’s tears, and Dave’s shaking, and the soft curve of his hip, and the too-fine fuzz that covers his tearstained cheeks, and the pleading, horrible look he gives you that reminds you of a dog kicked hard, without reason, in the ribs. 

“J-John, god,” he gulps, wrapping his arms around your waist. “I’m s-sorry, I c-can’t do it, I just w-want to be a boy, I want...” He whines, burrowing into your chest. “N-not supposed to be...” 

You’re tense, poised, scared to say something hurtful or rude or wrong by accident, and so is he, filled to the brim with what feels to you like panic and frustration, but you need to HELP him, do something to make him feel better. You can’t. What are you supposed to do? You’re helpless. 

“I know, Dave, I’m sorry,” you choke out after a second of staring at him. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m right here. You can cry. I l...” 

He interrupts you with a sob that sounds like it’s cracked right down the middle, and then he’s trembling like a leaf, squeezing you so hard it hurts. “Shit!” he squeaks. “Shit, no, not now! Get--” 

His hand swipes at you, and you scoot hastily away, yanking your hand away from his hair. You have no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s clearly panicked over something. His sobs have become more gasps for breath than anything. 

“I’m s...” he gasps. “Sorry...” 

“Shh, no...” You settle on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. You feel overwhelmingly calm, although that’s probably just because of how freaked out he is in comparison. “It’s okay, take as long as you want, I’m right here.” 

He nods like his head is too heavy for his neck, pressing his forehead into the pillow. These horrid choked breaths keep forcing their way out of his chest through his mouth, like they’re stuck down there. Every once in a while, he chokes out a little sob, fists tightening visibly in the blanket. You want to pull your phone out and maybe ask Rose what the hell you can do for him, but you’re not sure how to without disrupting him. Him and his shivering and the terrible mess he’s become. 

The minute hand on the alarm clock you have on your dresser has made a half-revolution when you glance at it again. But eventually, bit by bit, you can see him starting to compose himself again. His shoulders come down from his ears to their normal relaxed slump. All the tensed muscles in his stomach go lax, letting his limbs sink into the bed like they’re trying to join with it. His fists come unwound from the blanket. He lets out a long, unsteady breath. You can see a little more tension draining out of his shoulders. 

You scoot closer, lip caught between your teeth. “You okay?” 

“Yeah...” He’s checking himself-- wiggling each one of his fingers individually, curling and uncurling his toes, taking short, sharp breaths. Getting reacquainted with himself, almost. There’s a furrow in his brow of complete concentration, one you usually only see when he’s mixing or photographing or trying to preserve something in one of his dumb jars. “Sorry about that...” Before he can finish the apology, you’ve scooted all the way forwards and pulled him into your chest in a bear hug. 

“I love you, I love you,” you murmur to the top of his head. 

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” he grumbles, and at that moment, you decide Rose can go fuck herself. You kiss his head again. 

“Dave, I’m going to help you pay for surgery.” 

He seizes up, fingers pressing into the blanket. “No, n-no, I’m not letting you spend your money on that...” 

“Yeah, well, I’m letting MYSELF spend money on it,” you insist. When he doesn’t respond, you sit up, guiding him to do the same. He clings to you tightly. “I mean, look at you, Dave! You’re miserable...” 

“Not miserable.” He pushes his shades up to his head and swipes at his eyes. “Fuck off, John. What kind of money do you have?” 

“I have my savings!" 

He shakes his head. “Nooo. No. You are NOT spending your college money on me. I’m not letting you do that, John.” 

“I never said it was college money...” you say halfheartedly. The look he gives you, though, stops you in your tracks. 

“D’you think I’m an idiot?” he whispers, voice still shaky and uncomfortably high. It almost makes you cringe. 

“I know what I want, John,” he says. “And it’s not for you to go wasting your money on hormones for me.” 

“I know.” You feel kind of sick. You open your arms, pleading with your eyes for him to indulge you. “I just want you to be happy.” 

“Don’t give me that cushy ass bullcrap,” he grumbles, leaning into your arms nevertheless. He might sound resentful, but you can feel him shaking still. (You let him pretend that he’s indulging you by hugging you, instead of the other way around.) 

“I still love you, you dumb gay bastard,” you whisper. 

“Shh, shut up,” he mumbles back. 

You feel his arms go around you and laugh softly into his hair. “But, seriously, Dave. I really wanna help you with that stuff. I think you’d be happier.” 

“Well, things don’t pan out that way sometimes.” His shoulders lift in a tiny, helpless shrug. “Sometimes you just gotta roll with whatever life throws at you. Little did you know, John, we’re all just pins in this big ass bowling game...” 

You groan dramatically, interrupting him before he can go off on this stupid tangent. “Gaaaaah. I don’t want you to roll with this! I mean-- how often does that sort of thing happen?” Your voice is growing hoarse and squeaky. “How often do you hide that from people? All by yourself and...” 

“Egbert, oh my god, you make me sound like a tragic white dude in an action film.” He scoffs, but his eyes are still watery. 

You reach over for him and brush some hair out of his eyes, the pads of your fingers lingering for a few seconds on his temple. You feel his pulse beating there, like a butterfly is trapped inside his skull. 

“You’re not a movie character,” you whisper. “You’re my Dave. My Davey Dave.” You fall silent again, lips parted, and watch his eyes dart from your forehead down to your mouth, then to your fingers, which he’s slowly lacing with his own. 

After a few seconds of solemn contemplation, he drops your hand again and announces, “You’re gay.” 

”That’s deep,” you snort, and then fall back into silence, each of you studying the other. 

“Please let me try to convince him,” you breathe, gazing at his freckles because eye contact makes him nervous, despite the thousands of times he’s claimed otherwise. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Instead he closes his eyes, ducking forwards until he can rest his head on your chest. “Okay.” 

“Thank you,” you mumble. Behind his back, you do a silent fist pump. Yes. You’re so gonna get him HRT. He’s gonna be so happy, or you’re going to boot that stupid brother of his off the roof of their apartment building. 

Except not really, because he’d kick your ass.

**Author's Note:**

> trans dave has been my headcanon, my heart, my life  
> for like idk 564765743343110 years  
> based off my experiences with dysphoria + lots of extrapolation + copious research  
> i do have several people read through my chapters before i publish them! but if i ever say something that doesn't seem right, just hmu in the comments or on my [blog](http://fuckyouandrewhussie.tumblr.com/ask)  
> john tries really hard the poor guy  
> also this entire au is still under construction so please bear with any changes/inconsistencies... :'0
> 
> unrelated check out this [sick jam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mB4bvGMZbFU)


End file.
